Chapter 3 - THE SIGNATURE
The police arrived twelve minutes later.
By then, Patricia had transformed herself from accomplice to hostess.
She brought out ice. She asked whether anyone wanted coffee. She spoke to the officers in the careful, wounded tone of a woman forced to endure someone else’s instability.
“My daughter-in-law has been under terrible stress,” she said.
I almost admired the speed of it.
Officer Ramirez looked at the cut above my eye, then at the broken glass still glittering near the wall.
“Who threw it?”
Five people were in the room.
For one terrible second, nobody answered.
Then Robert said, “Michael.”
Jenna whispered, “I saw it too.”
Michael stared at both of them.
Patricia closed her eyes.
He was arrested for domestic battery.
As officers walked him out, he turned toward me.
“You have no idea what you just did.”
“I filed for divorce.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “I mean to yourself.”
The door closed behind him.
Rachel arrived before the patrol car left.
She carried a leather folder and the expression she used when she had bad news but no intention of being gentle about it.
In Patricia’s living room, she spread bank records across the coffee table.
The $72,000 withdrawal from my inheritance account had been authorized three days earlier.
I stared at the signature.
It looked like mine.
Almost.
The first E was too narrow. The final loop in Hale curved left instead of right.
“I didn’t sign this.”
“I know.” Rachel slid over another page. “The bank processed it because someone supplied a notarized authorization.”
Patricia stood near the fireplace.
“Forgery is a serious accusation.”
Rachel looked at her. “So is receiving stolen funds.”
Patricia’s mouth tightened.
Then Rachel tapped the notary stamp.
I recognized the name.
Linda Perez.
Michael’s office manager.
But the address under the stamp wasn’t Michael’s office.
It was the address of Patricia’s lake house.
Rachel looked at me.
“This wasn’t done this morning, Emma. They planned it.”
May you like
Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number.
DON’T TRUST CLAIRE. SHE’S NOT THE MISTRESS. SHE’S THE BOOKKEEPER.
